


500 Words: 4. Aegis

by Fire_Sign



Series: 500 Words [4]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5373785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>aegis<br/>noun<br/>1. Classical Mythology. the shield or breastplate of Zeus or Athena, bearing at its center the head of the Gorgon.<br/>2. protection; support:<br/>3. sponsorship; auspices:<br/>---------<br/>Jack is injured in the line of duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	500 Words: 4. Aegis

**Author's Note:**

> Another too-long-for-the-collection-so-posted-separately. Funnily enough this is sort of the counter to my ficathon prompt (Jack injured versus Phryne ill), so, uh, consider it a bonus? Nowhere near the emotional whumping, but the idea just fit so beautifully with aegis and the image of Phryne as Athena that I had to do it.

 

> #### Aegis
> 
> /ˈi dʒɪs/  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1\. Classical Mythology. the shield or breastplate of Zeus or Athena, bearing at its center the head of the Gorgon.  
>  2\. protection; support:  
>  _under the imperial aegis._  
>  3\. sponsorship; auspices:  
>  _a debate under the aegis of the League of Women Voters._

* * *

 

What strikes her later is that it was a routine arrest. She only went along because it was for a client. It's quick--Jack calls the suspect's name as they head down an alley, there's a one-two punch to the gut that sends him reeling, and Phryne knocks the suspect out with a scrap piece of wood. Hugh, following behind, isn't even in the alley by the time it's over.

Phryne turns to share a grin with Jack, probably tease him about letting a 60-year-old man get the drop on him, when she sees him on the ground. His tendency to be rendered unconscious by blows to the head is rather ridiculous, she thinks in the split second before her mind processes the growing stain on his waistcoat. She hadn't even seen the knife in the man's fist.

Shit.

It's all second nature for her to respond, her actions automated even as her mind revolts. Gloves off as a makeshift bandage. Pressure on the wound. Keep calm. Too much blood. Assess.

She hears Hugh come around the corner and stop short.

"Miss!"

Without looking she can tell he is torn, deciding between helping and arresting the suspect.

"Ambulance, Hugh," she orders. She doesn't care if the suspect, still thankfully out cold, gets up and _skips_ away. "Go!" 

She hears him leave and takes another assessment. Jack's still unconscious. Bad news, but at least he isn't moving and exacerbating the bleeding. Her gloves are soaked through; she needs something else to staunch the blood flow. There's a cotton scarf in her handbag, she remembers, but it would mean releasing the wound to reach it.

"Damnit Jack," she mutters. "I did not come back just for you to die in an alley six weeks after I arrived."

There's nothing for it; she moves, retrieving the scarf as quickly as possible and wads it up. Removes the gloves, sees the wound for the first time--surprisingly small, but she doesn't like the location or the suspected depth--and takes a deep breath. Scarf on. More pressure. Mutters a prayer for the first time in years. Sees him stir.

"Stay still, Jack," she scolds automatically. 

Unconsciousness probably due to head injury then. Workable. He has a thick skull. 

He groans, blinks.

"Phryne?"

"I'm here," she assures him. "You're hurt, so don't move." 

He looks like he intends to argue with her but doesn't have the energy. That's bad; he _always_ has the energy when it comes to arguing with her.

"Please, darling," she says, aware that her voice is laced with a desperation she can't actually feel. She's numb as she does what needs to be done. "Please just stay with me."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere else," he manages to joke, but he sounds short of breath.

Where the _hell_ is that ambulance? 

\---

"Where is he?" she shouts, striding into the police station. Jack's blood is still staining the sleeve of her blouse; the sight of it is the only thing that keeps her moving forward. 

(Hugh tells her later that the gossip in the locker room describes her "Like bloody Athena gone to war, mate," when the policemen who witnessed it relay the story with slightly wide eyes to their absent counterparts.) 

She moves through reception towards the door that leads down to the cells. A sergeant she doesn't know cuts in front of her.

"Move!" she orders.

"No, Miss."

"Move! Now! I want to see him."

She darts one way then the other, but the officer predicts her feint and blocks her. 

"No, Miss," he says again, inexplicably calm.

"Goddamnit sergeant, I want to see him **_now_**."

"Absolutely not, Miss," he says again, then lowers his voice. "He's in no shape to be talking anytime soon. The boys made sure of that."

(She finds out later that this is a lie."Sorry Miss," says the man who told it with an unapologetic shrug. "But the inspector never would have stood for it, and he's more intimidating than you.") 

"I'm not at all concerned about his ability to speak," she says, but it placates her slightly. Slightly. For the moment. 'Unable to speak' is the bare minimum she'll accept if anything actually happens to Jack Robinson.

"Do you need a ride back to the hospital?" asks the officer. Later she'll wonder how he even knew she'd been there in the first place or that she shouldn't have left. "I believe Constable Collins is heading there now that the prisoner has been processed."

She has no choice but to agree. She doesn't want to go back, to sit on uncomfortable chairs and wait. She wants to do something, _anything_ , to fix this situation.

\---

Mac is at the hospital when she arrives.

"The morgue is a surprising hotbed of gossip, considering nine out of ten people there are dead," she explains, her brusque words undermined when she hugs Phryne. "I'm no help; this isn't my hospital. But I thought I could translate."

Her oldest friend understands, of course, that what she needs is solutions, not consolations.

Phryne relates her own assessment and Mac nods.

"Could be worse," she says, which means that it's Absolutely Not Good.

They sit for only a minute before Phryne sees the doctor coming down the corridor.

"I should call Mr. Butler," she says suddenly, standing. "Let him know we won't be home for dinner."

And it's the unexpected revelation that Wardlow has somehow become their home and not hers-- _When?_ she wonders, knowing they hadn't had the time except the fact that it was months in the making--that sends her reeling. Every waylaid emotion hits her at once and she physically stumbles. Mac catches her, sits her in a chair, and pulls a flask from her pocket.

"Medicinal," she says as she unscrews the lid.

Phryne takes a swig. It burns on the way down and she coughs.

"That's terrible," she says.

"But it worked."

She looks at the flask in contemplation.

"What do I _do_ , Mac?" she finally asks quietly.

Mac looks at her peculiarly.

"You didn't realise?"

"Of course I _realised_ , Mac. I just... didn't think through the implications. So what do I do?"

"You keep your chin up, you talk to the presumably competent doctor that's headed towards us, and you do not run," says her friend. "And you keep the specifics to yourself because the physical recovery of Jack Robinson is something I'm quite happy not to be privy to."

"And if..."

She can't even voice it. 

"God, you are dreary," says Mac. "If I were Jack I'd be terrified to die on you. You'd go all Orpheus and Eurydice on him."

"I'd never be stupid enough to look back," Phryne scoffs. Humour is a safe haven, safer than questioning whether she really would succeed in Orpheus's quest. 

 "Doctor's here in about two seconds," Mac warns. "So charm your way through this."

Phryne stands as she turns, smiles, and channels her inner Aunt Prudence.

"Mrs. Robinson?" asks the doctor.

"I'm next of kin," Phryne says, glossing over both the erroneous assumption and the error of her own statement. "How is he?"

"Please, take a seat."

She lets the specifics of the injuries wash over her. She knows the words--there's something about duodenum and lacerations and bile--but she can't process them. 

"Risk of infection, probably too stubborn to die," Mac translates. "You can see him in twenty minutes or so, though he'll probably still be asleep."

Phryne nods.

"He'll have a private room and every amenity, of course," she says to the doctor, putting every inch of dignity she's ever possessed into the words. "I know half the hospital board, and I contribute to the hospital funds on a regular basis. I would hate to be let down when I've spoken of your facilities so highly."

"Of course," agrees the doctor, because he's no fool. 

\----

It's closer to half an hour before she is given permission to see him, and she spends most of it pacing.

("Sit down, you're making me dizzy," Mac complains around the time that Hugh goes off to telephone the station with the latest news. Phryne sits, but it lasts about two seconds before she is making another circle of the room.)

Eventually, a sister from the ward arrives and Phryne follows down a long corridors to his room. At the door she pauses, watching Jack's bed from where she stands; she can barely see him from this angle, but she finds she cannot cross the threshold.

"Phryne..." says Mac from behind her. "The outcome will be the same whether or not you're there. Staying away won't protect him."

Sometimes she hates having someone who knows her so well. Mac hangs back as she goes through the door, stands at the foot of the bed.

He is utterly still, arms at his sides. Every part of her mind screams " _That's not how he sleeps!_ " because it's wrong. He is usually still--probably for the best; she is the sort that is constantly moving--but it is relaxed, his hand always by his face in a way that makes her heart thump with adoration on the occasions she wakes first. This...this is the sleep of drugs and pain. It takes all her willpower not to turn and flee like a coward.

She moves towards the head of the bed and sits carefully on the edge of the mattress, her back to him, and places his hand in her lap. His hand is the same as always, at least, and she traces every line and callous repeatedly until she is certain she has it memorised. 

Eventually his hand twitches under her touch, and she turns to see him watching her.

"Hello, Jack," she says, forcing herself to sound cheerful. "Afraid you gave us quite a scare."

He struggles to sit, wincing in pain; she catches his shoulder, eases him up. Realises too late that there is no way for him to lean back in this bed with any comfort--the only pillow is thin and scratchy.

"I'll have Dot bring some decent pillows," she says. "Until then..."

She swings around, bringing her legs onto the bed so she's reclining beside him. There's something reassuring in his skeptical glance.

"I don't bite."

There's a slight twinkle in his eye when he looks at her fully.

"Now I know _that's_ not true, Miss Fisher," he laughs, but he settles his back against her without complaint.

They sit together; she can hear in his breath that there is still pain, which is to be expected, and she marvels that she could know anyone so well.  


"What happened?" Jack finally asks.

"Knife," she says. "No warning, which is a good thing because I'd be giving you hell if there had been. You'll be fine."

He nodded, and silence falls again.

"You could quit your job," she says idly after a few minutes. "Become a gentleman of leisure."

"No, I couldn't. And I'd never ask that of you."

"I know," she concedes, pressing a kiss against his hair. "And I'm not _really_ asking. But it never gets easier, does it?"

"Given the day I've had, you'll forgive me if I don't follow."

Yes, probably not the wisest time to be having this conversation.

"Nevermind, Jack."

"No, I think I need to hear this," he says, and his voice is so serious all of the sudden that she feels the need to soothe his fears. 

"Sending pieces of your heart into the world," explains Phryne, aware that the sentimentality is not her usual modus operandi. "And it's easy enough with Jane and Dot--which means not easy at all, except comparatively--because I'm _supposed_ to teach them how to fly and push them out of the nest, and I've known Mac for so long that I never really thought to worry about her."

"And...?"

"And I don't have either advantage with you."

He is silent for a minute, and she worries that she has said too much.

"The whole world is under the aegis of The Honorable Miss Fisher," he says eventually; it's distant and contemplative.

"Just the parts that matter to me," she replies, uncomfortably aware that she is far closer to tears than she's been at any point in this long day. It's almost a relief though, so she amends her statement. "Just the people that I love."

He places his hand on her thigh, gives it a gentle squeeze to acknowledge her words; neither wants to taint the first real exchange with this memory and so it is enough.

"No, it doesn't get easier. But keeping those pieces doesn't protect you either," he says. She's not sure if it was a lesson he learnt after the war or after her. "You're too wise to repeat my mistakes."

"I don't know about wise," she laughs. "But I certainly prefer to make my own. Now try to rest, darling. I'll be here."


End file.
